


A Gameshow Love Connection

by DancingClouds



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 06:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12978513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingClouds/pseuds/DancingClouds
Summary: AU: Having the Winter Soldier as his soul-mate was awkward. Even more awkward was finding this out shortly after said soldier had arrested him.





	A Gameshow Love Connection

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to Caz for her beautiful artwork! Link is here: https://78.media.tumblr.com/23cf241e42d20092d56fc1ab597f8a47/tumblr_p0psmfuIMF1stzh2ho1_1280.png
> 
> Soulmates concept is loosely based off of Sense8. Title is from “Hey, Soul Sister” by Train.

There was an ant crawling on his neck.

Clint was sure of it. He’d had six hours and fifty-two minutes to meditate on it, which was also the amount of time it took, apparently, for Mr. Enroch Lucito to finish up his workday and exit the lobby, moving toward the road just as his bulletproof limo pulled up. Because of course mafia personnel liked to save their half-days for when there weren’t snipers baking away on the roof, suffering needlessly for the embarrassing compensation of 10K (2K down, 8K upon completion). And naturally, the building across Lucito's workplace just so happened to have only one position with a decent sight-line, which coincidentally was positioned right next to the outtake pipe for the ventilation system for the dog grooming place on the ground floor.

It hadn't been a good day, and by the time Lucito was in position, Clint had long been fantasizing about killing him in much more creative ways than with a gunshot. But the guys who'd hired the Circus had been unusually specific, so Clint was using a rifle.

He'd just been ready to fire when a metal shield slammed into him, knocking the rifle away and Clint unconscious. 

A few hazy minutes later, Clint came to in the back of an armored van. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, courtesy of the still wide-open sliding door, giving Clint a good view of the outdoors proceedings.

“Aw, fuck, man.” Next to him, nameless goon #1 groaned. There were about four other guys besides Clint wedged into the back, all zip tied and probably all knocked into oblivion like Clint by—

“Captain America? Really?” Clint groaned as he rolled into a sitting position.

Star Spangled Banner was chatting it up with a bunch of police officers, who were nodding seriously and taking down notes. Clint looked over the shield strapped to his back—surprisingly, he didn’t see any of his blood on it. The guy had a mean throw.

“Oh God,” Goon #2 started up. Unlike the others, he was curled up in a fetal position and sweating profusely. “The Avengers. It's over, man, all over, Hulk's gonna tear my skull outta my head, they're gonna peel off my skin and use it to make Thor a new cape, oh God--”

Jesus. Clint shifted to put some space between them.

“--they've got the Winter Soldier, he's gonna stick his arm up my ass and strangle me with my own intestines--”

“No, I'm not.”

Clint started and whipped his head around. Sure enough, about ten feet off from the open sliding-door was the infamous Winter Soldier. How Clint had missed the guy, all up in black body armor and that fucking shiny arm, he had no idea. Probably the concussion. He looked the soldier—all 6'2” of him—up and down. Yep, concussion. No other way he would have missed that.

Goon #3 shifted over and whispered to the group: “I heard he's joining the Avengers now. We're the fucking guinea pigs for him. To see how he'll react once they give him a gun and let him loose.”

Clint frowned. Okay, so he'd _heard_ that the Winter Soldier had been captured, or gone to the Light Side, or whatever some months ago. He hadn't bought it at first, mainly because he hadn't believed the Winter Soldier had even existed as anything beyond a ghost story in the first place, but then pictures of the guy had started circulating on Facebook.

“You know what they say,” Goon #2 was moaning, “Over two hundred assassinations in fifty years. He eats all his victims; that's gotta be how he's stayed alive all these years, they're gonna feed us to him piece by piece, oh please don't let him eat me first--”

“Uh...I think he can hear you,” Clint said. Goon #2 paled, but there was no response from the soldier.

Clint looked around. There was no one else paying attention to the van.

“What part of you does he eat?” Clint asked a little more loudly. Hm, maybe a twitch?

“Your brain, man!” Okay, the soldier definitely moved a little at that, turning away a little more from the van. Clint pressed on.

“So he's a zombie? Is that how he stayed alive all this time?” Keeping Captain Douchebag’s and the soldier's positions in mind, he spread his hands as far as the zip tie would give against the floor of the van and lifted, shifting his pelvis backwards and over the tie until his hands were resting against the toes of his boots. Chewing on the tie until it broke, Clint then grabbed an abandoned SHIELD jacket and put it on over his own ensemble (purple, purple, and darker purple).

Goon #2 hadn't noticed Clint's antics. “That's why they got the mask on him, so he won't eat their own guys! But they don't give a shit about us, we're just food for him, any second now—”

“How does he eat us? Like, the whole body or just the brain?” Clint added a little relish to it. “Is he gonna unhinge his jaw like a snake and eat you whole, or piece by piece?”

“Will you people just shut the hell up?!” The soldier snapped. He turned towards the van, gun lowered, and Clint seized the opportunity to spring out of the van and plant a boot in the soldier's face.

They both fell to the ground, Clint already moving into a roll with the aim of snagging the soldier's gun. Unfortunately the soldier lived up to reputation; instead of releasing it in the confusion, he twisted it 180 degrees and pistol-whipped Clint on the shoulder. Clint made ducked with the blow ( _ow)_ and hooked a leg around the soldier's, sending them both to the ground, then reached over his back to grab at his hair—

—his hand brushed against skin, and—

—the universe shrunk: there was only his breathing and the soldier's, quiet and still like they were hiding under the blankets while Dad screamed from the kitchen, like there were falling past an endless line of snow-covered trees; and their heartbeats that synced into one—

—something had opened in his mind, and he was scared, so scared, how could all of this be for him?—

—Clint jerked and pushed away, hard. The shock of pain in his shoulder was bad, but not as bad as the throbbing in his cheek where that fucker's heel had dug in—but that couldn't be right, it was _Clint_ who'd stomped the guy in the face, not the other way around...

They both froze, Clint on his side on hot asphalt, the soldier crouched three feet away.

“You...” The soldier was staring at him, eyes wide and disbelieving. “You're...”

Clint couldn't look him in the eye. He looked instead at his stubbled jawline, the line of sweat going into the hollow of his neck, the finely overlapping plates of metal of his left arm. So much detail, but he couldn't see the whole of it, not when it all summed into something seemingly impossible.

“...Bucky?” Clint shook his head a little, trying to clear the water from his ears. Everything sounded muffled; everything except for the soldier's slow breaths. “Bucky, are you okay?”

The soldier jerked back. The motion broke the spell; Clint looked up and saw Captain America jogging over to them, looking concerned. _Shit._

Clint sprang to his feet. A quick run of his hand around his waist—his rifle and the wallet with a fake ID gone, but still three throwing knives and a stash of hundreds on him.

He made the mistake of looking back at the soldier. The look on the soldier's face caused something deep in his gut to twist painfully. He was...the soldier was _his_ , and he was the soldier's, everything in him was screaming at him to stay.

Clint ran.

 

* * *

 

“Circus of Crime, assemble!” The ringmaster announced. Clint rolled his eyes.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Barney groaned. He lounged against one of the stacked hay bales. “We're already assembled.”

“Yeah, we've been here for almost half an hour already. Some of us have dinner plans, you know.”

“You be quiet—” The ringmaster shook his finger at Barney, who flipped him off in response. Clint grinned down at him from his spot up in the rafters. “Your insubordination is becoming a—”

“How about we just get started?” The quiet command silenced the group. The ringmaster paused, glanced nervously at Duquesne, then sidled back into the center of the barn. At Duquesne's approving nod, the ringmaster coughed and started their weekly business meeting.

“Now that everyone is...present, let's begin with our most pressing matter...” He twirled on his feet slowly, pointed finger dragged along until it finally landed squarely on Clint. “Hawkeye's failed mission! What happened?! We lost $10,000 thanks to your incompetency!"

The barn amplified ringmaster's high-pitched voice, making it nice and easy for Clint to hear him. He leaned back and adjusted his footrest on the rafter.

“There were unexpected circumstances,” he said before tilting his head down at the group. “Captain America? The Winter Soldier? Does that ring a bell?”

“We do not accept excuses--” He started shrilly, only to be cut off by Swordsman.

“Why were the Avengers involved?”

Clint paused, considering. He'd been asking himself just that—well, that and a whole shitload of other questions—ever since their encounter the previous week, but had come up with just more questions and fewer answers. But when Swordsman wanted information, he had to oblige.

“I wasn't in a position to hear much info...but if I had to guess, it was a training mission for the Winter Soldier.” That was what one of the captured would-be assassins had offered up, and it was the only possibility that Clint could buy. Run-of-the-mill assassinations and robberies were below the Avengers' pay grade. He'd had a fit of paranoia immediately afterward that they'd intentionally been _looking_ for Clint before he'd managed to calm himself down. There was no way of knowing that...that kind of thing in advance, after all. You just had to find out on your own. “We just had the shitty luck of being the guys they picked.”

“Like we're going to believe in a coincidence like that! It is obvious what has happened: the Avengers have uncovered the Circus of Crime!” The ringmaster began to yell, sending a wave of distress through the minions. “I have always known that they sought to discover us, and your incompetence has allowed them to--”

“Enough.” The swordsman stood up. The whisper of his blades brushing against his body armor should have been too quiet for Clint to hear, but something about Duquesne always got Clint's attention. “Coincidences happen. There is no reason for the Avengers to take an interest in the Circus...for now.”

While the ringmaster cowered away, Duquesne looked up at Clint. “Is there a possibility that they could recognize you?”

Clint was very happy that he was at least thirty feet away, meaning that Duquesne and Barney probably missed the expression on his face. Given that he was apparently the Winter Soldier's fucking...well, needless to say that possibility was 100%.

“They would have seen my face when they put me in custody. May have fingerprinted and photographed me while I was unconscious.” There hadn't been any ink on his fingers, but who knew what new tech the good guys had been coming up with, even if Ironman hadn't been in the vicinity. It was a shame, the way the little guys were being squeezed out. “So yeah, probably.”

Clint felt a little twinge of guilt. He wasn't lying, exactly, but the Swordsman always demanded all available information, and what had happened with the soldier was most definitely relevant info. He'd been considering telling him or even Barney ever since he'd escaped that mess, but when he'd thought about the possible outcomes, about what the Swordsman might do with information like that...

Clint swallowed hard, keeping the secret deep inside.

“So just don't send Clint out on any missions for now. The Avengers don't give a shit about the Circus, so if he lays low for a while, they'll probably forget the whole thing. I'll cover his jobs.” Barney looked up at him. Clint appreciated the reassurance that he hadn't screwed up as badly as he'd first thought, but god, if Barney knew what had _really_ happened…

The Swordsman slowly nodded, and the ringmaster took that as his cue to take center stage again.

“Fine then! The next order of business, our budget for ammunition has been overdrawn by $5500! The responsible parties must--”

No longer the center of attention, Clint allowed himself to relax, slumping against the wooden rafter behind him and letting his feet dangle. He was a little sleep-deprived after dodging from safe house to safe house over the past week, making sure he wasn't being tracked, and he took the opportunity to doze off. It wasn't until about forty-five minutes later that he jerked awake unexpectedly.

Clint darted his gaze around, trying to figure out what had woken him. The ringmaster was still droning away below, occasionally waving his hands frantically whenever the Strongman got bored and stopped aiming the electric spotlight on him, and the Swordsman and Barney hadn't moved. Everything seemed okay...up until Clint glanced at the open doorway of the barn and the shadowed figure that stood within.

Immediately Clint sprang into a crouch and assembled his bow, aiming square for the soldier's head. The soldier's eyes landed unerringly on Clint's position, gaze hot and unreadable, but he didn't move. His heartrate was going crazy as adrenaline pulsed through him: he'd fucking found them, Clint had gotten them all killed--

“Hawkeye?” The ringmaster asked, sounding confused. “Is something wrong?” Clint blinked, and realized that everyone was staring at him. No one, not even the Swordsman, acknowledged the soldier's presence.

Right. The bond.

“Uh...nothing.” Clint lowered his elbow, letting the bowstring relax into resting position. “Just...um, daydreaming.”

The soldier snorted. Everyone continued to stare at Clint, except for Duquesne who was looking at the spot where Clint had been aiming. Seeing nothing of interest, he jerked his head back at the ringmaster, silently ordering him to continue.

“Next time, don't interrupt me for such frivolities!” The ring master strode back into the center of the barn. “As I was saying...”

The soldier walked a few more steps into the barn, letting sunlight from one of the overhead windows wash away the shadows. He was in the same outfit as before, black body armor that had to be too hot to wear in direct sunshine...except that the soldier wasn't really there. He was probably in an air-conditioned Avengers base, using the bond to figure out Clint's location.

“A barn? This is your supervillain lair?” He said, a hint of disbelief. Clint flinched a little—at that distance his voice should have been too muffled, but the bond between them had made his voice loud and clear to Clint.

He didn't reply. He didn't need everyone thinking he was going crazy...or worse, figuring out what was really going on.

The soldier looked over the barn's occupants. “It's worse than I thought. They're clowns.”

Clint gritted his teeth. That wasn't fair, there were only two clowns among the circus, and they weren't even in full costume today. Okay, so maybe the ringmaster's outfit was a little flamboyant (even without the hat), but considering the team name, he didn't think they were doing half bad.

However, Clint didn't think that had been directed at him. He frowned and squinted a little. The soldier was tilting his head a little to the left, almost as if he was listening for something...

Or to someone. Shit, the soldier was talking to someone else. That meant there was someone else (probably ALL of the Avengers) listening in, getting info on the circus, on where their HQ was...Jesus, Clint was a giant hole in their security that all of SHIELD could peer through.

Clint squeezed his eyes shut and felt for the bond. He'd been practicing earlier (with limited success), using the bare bones about bonding that he'd remembered from childhood, trying to locate that _thing_ that hovered in the back of his mind. He'd eventually figured out the trick of it, that it was a negative space, a hole deep inside (heh) that he could only find by looking for what was missing.

(What was missing, he didn't dare ask)

And...there. Panic, disgust, anger—he forced it all through, and was satisfied when the soldier winced and stepped back.

“That's not gonna work,” he snarled at Clint. “Do it.”

A pulse of red flooded Clint's vision and he gasped. The bond seemed to zip itself shut, leaving a solid wall that was too smooth for him to catch his fingernails on. What the fuck?

“Unfair, dude,” Clint muttered, low enough that no one else could hear him. The soldier stared at him, then shrugged.

“We can't allow an alleged criminal to get access to my mind.” Then, more quietly: “At least more so than the usual.”

“Well, I'm not exactly a happy camper about having a murderous psychopath in mine,” he replied, grinning when the soldier shot a death glare his way. He tried again—no luck. Whatever he'd done, Clint couldn't access the bond. “How about we agree on our mutual dislike and part ways? As in, you get the fuck out, right now.”

Below him, the group began to break up. Barney and the Swordsmaster were in a private discussion but the ringmaster waved up at him, gesturing for him to climb down. Clint nodded back then took a deep breath. Maybe he couldn't cross over to the soldier's mind, but could he at least block the soldier from accessing his? He tried to visualize a sold brick wall, a bunch of booby traps, an angry dog...and nothing. The soldier rudely ignored his efforts in favor of looking around the place.

“If this is your group's headquarters, it's only a matter of time before we track you down.” The soldier let out a deep sigh. “Just turn yourself in while you still can.”

Now _that_ pissed him off. “Oh really? Well why don't you just get out? Get out, get out, getout _getoutgetout_ \--” Desperate and panicking, Clint plugged his ears and screamed at the wall in his head: _GET OUT_

And the soldier was gone.

 

* * *

 

The soldier showed up again about a week later.

Clint choked on his coffee when he saw him and ended up in a five minute coughing fit.

“You alright?” Barney asked. “I'd slap you on the back, but my hands are full.” He raised his sub with both hands.

“Just fine,” Clint muttered hoarsely. The soldier hesitated, then slid into the booth next to theirs, just visible over Barney's shoulder.

He remained there for the next twenty minutes, apparently fascinated by the sight of diner food and the back of Barney's head. The staring gave Clint indigestion and he was forced to forfeit the rest of his lunch to Barney.

“Take it easy,” Barney said, clapping his hand on Clint's shoulder as he got to his feet. “Don't take that job too hard, alright? Duquesne and I got you covered.”

With Barney standing, the Winter Soldier was dead-center in Clint's view. It was difficult to tear his eyes away and wave Barney goodbye.

There was another tense few minutes after Barney left as the two of them stared each other down. Clint finally broke the staring contest after getting an itch on his nose.

“Stop being a creeper,” he said. The soldier frowned, then:

“I'm a sniper. It's my job.”

“So am I, but you don't see me following you around all the time.”

“You can't. The Scarlet Witch is blocking the bond from your end.”

“Is that any way to treat your soulmate?” There, it was out. Horrible word for it, but that was what most people called it. Soulmate, coincidence, command from God...whatever name you chose, there was no denying it. He was stuck.

The word appeared to have shocked the soldier into silence. Clint took a long sip from his coffee to give him an excuse to avoid speaking.

“That's the way I would treat a criminal,” he finally said. Clint slammed his coffee cup on the table.

“I'm getting this shit from the fucking Winter Soldier?” he spat out. Jesus, what a prick.

A pause. “My name is Bucky,” the soldier said softly.

“Neat. My name is Slim Shady.” He sneered. “Now we're best buddies--”

“Sir? Can I get you anything?”

Clint started badly enough to spill his coffee, which probably pissed off the waitress since she slapped the check down with a little more force than necessary. “Whenever you're ready, _sir_ ,” she said, last word dripping with disdain.

While Clint dug for his wallet, the soldier finally looked away from Clint, now out of the window. “Midwest?”

“Huh?” Clint asked, distracted. All he had in his wallet were small bills and change, and math was too much this early in the morning.

“American Midwest. That's where you are.”

Clint froze. _Fucking fuck he was so fucking stupid._

Okay, play it casual. “Hey, can you spot me a fiver?” He held up his wallet, drawing the soldier's attention back to him.

The soldier frowned. “Why do you only have ones?”

“Cause I'm secretly a stripper. C'mon, help a guy out.”

The soldier slowly looked him up and down. Shook his head.

“Don't run,” he said, slowly. “We'll find you eventually.”

He felt a sweat break out on his forehead. Were the Avengers actually _looking_ for him? Jesus.

“Hey, maybe I'll find you first,” Clint tried.

“You know where I am.”

Avengers Tower, New York City, New York. Right. “Something tells me I wouldn't be all that welcome. Being a criminal and all.”

What would even happen, if Clint just walked up to the Avengers Tower and rang the bell? He had a criminal background a mile long, enough to put him away for three lifetimes. Assault, robbery, 1st degree murder...he'd always told himself that the people he hurt deserved it, and that the world wasn't as black and white as it was in the Captain America comics. But whenever he was alone and let himself think back on the things he'd done, there wasn't much that he felt proud of.

He wondered if the soldier felt the same way.

Damn it. Clint shook his head, forcing himself out of that train of thought. Being soulmates meant _nothing_. His parents had been soulmates, and all that had meant in the end was that his mother couldn't walk away. There weren't any rules saying that soulmates had to fall in love, or have everything in common, or be two halves of a whole, or whatever other shit that floated around in the movies. He'd always subscribed to the likelihood that it was just some genetic quirk, a buried 6 th sense that humans had. Having a soulmate was a burden if anything; this bond was a liability, one that would probably get him killed.

If the soldier—Bucky—had replied, Clint hadn't noticed. He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering what he'd done before at the barn. When he opened his eyes a few minutes later, the soldier was gone again.

 

* * *

 

Clint was not a master tactician. But he'd planned out jobs before, and he knew strategy.

The Avengers were looking for him? Fine. Clint could work with that.

What the Avengers knew:

1\. What he looked like

2\. He'd been in Casa Nueva for an attempted assassination on 04/25/17 at 10:00AM

3\. He'd been traveling through the American Midwest a week later

4\. He worked for an organization with clowns

What they didn't know:

1\. His name/identity

2\. His current location

His soulmate could spy on him, sure. But it looked like Clint had at least a little control over how long the soldier could stay in his head. As long as he kept that guy out of his head whenever he was near street signs, or generally recognizable areas, then things should be a breeze. Eventually the soldier would get tired of hassling him and go back to his adventuring, avenging lifestyle. Why care about a lowlife circus criminal like Clint?

There was a niggling worry in the back of his head, that maybe the soldier was one of the 'believers' when it came to soulmates. In Clint's experience, crazy people could be pretty effective at getting what they wanted. But how likely was that?

It didn't take long for Clint to be proven wrong.

“What are you doing?”

Clint jerked, losing sight of the target in his scope. He swore when the soldier knelt down next to him on the rooftop.

“I'm working, fuck off!” Too late. The target had gotten into the building safe and sound, free of any of the tranquilizer darts Clint had thoughtfully packed away for him. Damn it.

“You know that I have to interfere if you're going to hurt someone, right?” The soldier seemed a little amused as Clint scrambled to disassemble the tranq gun, anxious to get away now that the job had been blown.

“He wasn't the one who's going to get hurt,” Clint snarled, swinging the gun case. It just passed straight through the image of the soldier, who looked unimpressed.

“You can't get rid of me that way.”

Clint groaned. Fine. He locked the gun into the case on his back. “Then I'll use the bond like before. Consider this your five minute warning.”

“You can keep closing the bond, but I'll keep opening it on my end,” the soldier drawled, rising to a standing position with Clint. “Every time you go on a job. Until you turn yourself in.”

“So that's how it is, then,” Clint replied. He faced off with the soldier, who was giving him the old stink eye. “Either I get caught, or I turn myself in.”

The soldier paused, obviously listening to someone. Maybe Captain America was giving him orders, or SHIELD. Maybe even Hydra, if the rumors were true. “Pretty much.”

“And what happens then?” Clint asked, tone low and harsh. “I go to prison for the rest of my life?” He'd been thinking about it, and he was pretty sure that was the only option for SHIELD. They could never let Clint go free, not with the potential to access the mind of an Avenger. Even if the witch _could_ keep him blocked out, the possibility was a nightmare scenario for any superhero, world leader, politician, whatever. In a perfect world it wouldn't matter who your soulmate was; in reality, this wouldn't be the first time an inconvenient soulmate had quietly gone missing.

The soldier shook his head. “You have to trust me on this—they don't want to imprison you.” He winced, as if someone on his end was disagreeing.

“And why should I trust you?”

The soldier didn't answer him, probably because he didn't have one. Clint snorted and made for the fire escape, only for a bullet to whizz past him, scraping a burning line across his side. Damn it—he'd gotten careless—he hurled himself off the rooftop, made for the getaway car. By the time he was a safe distance from the site, he realized that the soldier had disappeared.

 

* * *

 

“What kind of safehouse is this?"

Clint slowly peeled his face off the leather armrest. No sound, not even a crinkle from the newspaper he'd put down on the couch first before his nap to keep blood off it. He groaned and reached for his hearing aids.

“Wake up, already.”

Clint bolted upright. He looked around the room frantically until he finally spotted the soldier, who was standing at the single window.

“Dude. What the fuck?” Clint left the aids in his lap; no point when the voice was in his head. “Get out of my house.”

The soldier shook his head. “This isn't your home.”

“Of course it's not, you think I'm stupid enough to go home with you in my head?” Clint asked sarcastically.

“I'm not...” He sighed. “Fine, then.” He looked at the couch and frowned. “Are you hurt?”

“None of your fucking business,” Clint snarled.

This was getting old, really fast. This made, what, the fourth time? Third? He eyeballed the soldier, noting the lack of any apparent weapons. He was tempted to throw something at him, just to make sure he wasn't really there.

“It is my fucking business if my—if you get hurt. Which seems to be often.”

Fair enough. And everyone knew the stories of what happened to you when your soulmate died. Still, the soldier was one to talk; he'd been in the crime business long before Clint had even been born.

That whole mess was a can of worms better left unopened, so Clint changed the subject. “So are you guys self-promoting? Trying to bump up sales of Avengers swag?” At the soldier's confused look, he nodded at his T-shirt which had a cartoon drawing of Thor's head on it. Made for a nice change from the body armor at least. “Ask Ironman for marketing ideas, if he's there.”

“He's not,” the soldier curtly replied. “No one is.”

Clint paused. Unlike his other visits, the soldier didn't appear to be speaking to anyone else. Clint had assumed they were just laying low, waiting for Clint to reveal something incriminating, but…

He felt into the bond. Still impenetrable. He rolled his eyes.

“There's nobody else here. Just me,” the soldier repeated.

“Sure,” Clint said. He knew the bond was still blocked, which meant that the witch was still there.

The soldier let out a frustrated noise. “You don't have to believe me, but it's true. Maximoff is keeping the bond closed on your end, but she doesn't know when I use it on mine. That means we can talk in private.”

“What, so now I'm your secret pen-pal?” Seriously, what the fuck was this? Threaten to arrest Clint, then wink at him on the sly? “You think I'm stupid? This is a trick."

“Look,” the soldier cut him off. “They had soulmates back in my time too. I don't know if what that means has changed since every goddamn thing else has, but back in my day that meant you looked out for each other. Maybe everything else is a mess, but that part still has to be true. I have to believe in that.”

Clint stared the guy down, trying to get a read on him. His face was frustratingly difficult to read. The bond was no better: still blocking him from crossing over, but it was open enough that there should have been more coming through—not this blank static that buzzed like the sound of his hearing aids dying.

“Open it, then,” Clint whispered, trusting that the soldier would be able to hear him.

“I _can't_.” He—Bucky—said. “You know that. You just have to trust me.”

Bad idea. Very bad idea, and Clint was an expert on those.

But he still remembered that moment when the bond had first opened, before the witch had slammed it shut on him, remembered what he had seen inside the soldier, inside himself, and the idea of giving that up seemed, seemed…

Clint nodded.

* * *

 

“It's immature. Just like you.”

“Excuse me?” Clint demanded. The soldier scoffed and turned away, forcing Clint to get to his feet and walk around him to meet his gaze. “Care to repeat yourself?”

“You know damn well what I mean, Clinton.” Clint tried to hide his wince when he heard the name, but the soldier noticed it, just like everything else, letting his lips twitch in response.

“Maybe I don't. Maybe I'm just completely oblivious to everything. Isn't that what you always say?” Clint dropped to a whisper. “Isn't it?”

“I only say things that are true,” the soldier replied. “And what I said stands: it's immature. What I want--”

“Why is it always about what you want?” Clint cut him off, tone going low and deadly. The soldier tensed but stood his ground.

“I could say the same thing.”

They were left in a standoff, neither willing to give ground. There was only maybe ten feet between himself and Bucky's projection, but Clint could feel every one of the hundreds of miles physically between them. The tension made him ache but the soldier seemed completely unaffected, complete with a perfectly blank mask that Clint was finally forced to look away from.

“Fine!” Clint scrubbed his hands over his face, wincing at the gritty dryness in both eyes. “We'll watch Casablanca. Even though Ace Ventura is a goddamn better movie, immature or not.”

Bucky's face immediately cracked into a smile. “You're too easy, Clint.  _Clinton,_ ” he threw in, making Clint throw a pillow through his face in retaliation.

“Obviously I'm never trusting you with anything again.” Okay, so maybe he'd deserved it with all the dragging he gave the soldier for that nickname, Bucky, but ever since the guy had found out Clint's full name, he'd been throwing it back at him every chance he got.

“Nah, you're easy. What was that story about Barney and the undercover cop again?” Another pillow, but Bucky's grinning face just flickered then resolidified. “The one where he said he'd kill you if you ever told? Or the one where he sold you out to that drug dealer? Or when he stole your car?"

Clint groaned and threw himself back onto the couch. At Bucky's warning look, he grabbed the remote and flipped to Casablanca. Boring ass shit—Bucky always wanted to watch old-timey stuff. Whether they settled it by rock-paper-scissors, eenie-meenie-minie-moe, or good ol'negotations, the guy always seemed to win.

Bucky settled in next to him, seemingly entranced by the opening credits. Clint tried to focus on the movie but kept making aside glances at Bucky. Winter Soldier. Avenger. Sitting on his couch and watching black-and-white movies.

Honestly, Clint had no idea what Bucky's motivation was here. He still occasionally reported to the Avengers while visiting Clint, revealing interesting—but not revealing—details about his location, what Clint was doing, etc etc, but at other times they seemed to be completely alone. Clint wasn't completely stupid; he knew damn well that the soldier could easily be using those other times to gather information more covertly and report it to SHIELD later. He should have just cut all contact altogether, closed the bond from his end through any means necessary and let them both move on with their lives.

But he was still a little bit stupid. So he allowed the visits to go on, which they did with an increasing frequency, going from once a month to once every week, until about three months after their first meeting Clint woke up with the realization that he and Bucky were hanging out on a pretty much daily basis. He was spending more time with Bucky than with his own brother.

Although for the past month that had been changing. The Swordsmaster had judged it safe for Clint to step back up to full-time work with the Circus (having spent the months prior on an 'on-call' basis), so he was going out on the regular for whatever work he could get—mostly run of the mill protections, overseeing drug deals, once retrieving a safe deposit key from some dude's house. All milk runs for Clint. Normally he'd be pissed off about getting assigned easy jobs, but he was grateful for it now; his 'criminal activities' were still a whole thing of awkward with Bucky. As an Avenger, Bucky was most definitely not a fan of what Clint was paid to do, but since getting into it would just end in another argument, Bucky had started to just avoid the topic altogether, leaving the bond whenever Clint was preparing for another job.

Avoiding relationship problems was Clint's specialty. Definitely not going to blow up in his face.

So it was a surprise to Clint when Bucky showed up just before he and Barney were to board a plane headed for Detroit.

“Clint,” he hissed, gesturing with the metal hand as Clint dumped his bag onto the conveyor belt. He was back in full Avengers uniform again, looking particularly bad-ass compared to the cheap mall cop-looking uniforms of the airport security around him. “I need to talk to you.”

Ahead of him, Barney stepped through the scanner, a nice safe distance between them.

“What's going on?” Clint muttered back. That the soldier was keeping his voice low wasn't lost on Clint; he was probably near either an Avenger or a SHIELD agent.

“Get out of that airport.  _Now_.”

The TSA agent gestured Clint forward.

“Uh...why?”

Bucky was looking at the ceiling, looking at the signs plastered everywhere. “Because we're waiting for you.”

_Shit_.  _Shitshitshitshit_ \--“Sir? Please step forward.” The TSA agent was looking pissed off...unless he was really a SHIELD agent in disguise. Clint looked around, gaze jumping from face to face. Impossible to tell; the only face he could be sure of was Barney's, who was busy trying to pull his socks back on.

“I...uh...” Clint stepped back, bare feet cold on the dirty linoleum. The people piled up in line behind him were starting to look pissed off too. There were cameras everywhere. He'd given a fake ID to security, but he couldn't remember which identity he'd used, if it was one that was safe to compromise. “I…”

“Clyde?” Barney had noticed what was going on. “C'mon, let's go.”

Bucky stepped closer, gaze frantic. “I have to tell them where you are.  _Go!_ ”

“I don't feel good,” Clint tried. He knew he was pale and sweating. Believable, with any luck. “Brian, can you take me to the restroom?”

Barney hesitated, then glanced at security. The guard rolled her eyes but nodded—not SHIELD, then—and Barney went back through the scanner, grabbed their bags, grabbed Clint by the elbow and dragged them back through the security line towards the nearest bathrooms.

“We don't have time for your shit. What the hell was that about?” He whispered quickly into Clint's ear. He looked like a combination of pissed and scared, which was a pretty typical look for him.

“When we hit the bathroom, we go into the vents,” Clint replied. The soldier was walking next to them; at that, he nodded back. No more talking; he'd probably told SHIELD that Clint had closed the bond again.

“The vents? Why the fuck would I do that?”

“We're compromised.” Clint sped up, feeling more and more paranoid that the people surrounding them were SHIELD agents. Well, probably not the old man muttering to himself, but everyone else maybe. “SHIELD.”

“What?!” Thankfully they'd hit the bathroom by the time Barney started yelling, and Clint could ignore him while he pried the vent cover off the ceiling.

“Hurry up,” the soldier muttered next to him, standing next to an oblivious Barney. “They only brought a few people to bring you in, but they'll call in backup once they realize you're not still at security.”

“You're just gonna have to trust me on this one,” Clint told Barney. He heaved himself into the vent, then reached down for his brother.

Barney just stared up at him. “You're crazy. This job's gonna pay us 20K and you're bailing?”

“Barney--” There was no time for this, judging from the 'hurry-up' motions the soldier was making. But he couldn't leave Barney behind. “Please.”

He poured every ounce of sincerity into his face, but it was another long minute before Barney took his hand.

 

* * *

 

It took a week for Clint to start feeling safe again.

Luckily, Barney seemed to accept Clint's story that he'd recognized a SHIELD agent from his memorable first encounter three months ago. There had been a time when Barney could always tell that Clint was lying, but now that Clint was all grown up it seemed like his poker face was better. In any case, Barney was spending more time with Duquesne and less with Clint lately, making it a lot easier to conceal his meetings with the soldier.

The soldier had only visited once since the airport, and it had been a pretty short conversation. On his advice, Clint had packed up and started motel-jumping, setting off pings country-wide with the fake identity he'd used at the airport. With any luck he'd be able to shake off his tails for a while.

There was a sense of the inevitable, though, that he'd eventually get caught. If SHIELD and the Avengers got serious about looking for him, they'd have him in a heartbeat. Clint was pretty sure that Bucky was feeding them false intel; that was the only explanation for how he'd gotten this far.

He asked Bucky about it once the soldier reappeared, looking like a ghost standing in Clint's motel room. Bucky had just shrugged, which was as good as a confirmation in Clint's eyes.

“But why?” he'd asked, but Bucky didn't have an answer for him.

Eventually Bucky's visits stepped back up to their normal frequency. Clint even found himself looking forward to them; Bucky had a lot of good stories, with Clint giving as good as he got.

Plus, while Bucky never got even close to hinting at business, he was more than happy to dish on any and all drama going on in the Avengers. For example, Falcon and Captain America? Totally into each other per Bucky info.

“The worst part was when Wilson asked me for advice on what flowers to get for Steve. Flowers! I told him that Stevie wasn't some dame looking for a bunch a' posies and he was allergic anyway, but of course he did it anyway with a bunch of 'hypoallergenic strains', and Stevie? Loved 'em, keeps a jar full of them in his kitchen on his floor.”

As hilarious as that mental imagery was (he could see it now, Captain America in full uniform arranging flowers in his kitchen), Clint still wondered why Bucky shared stuff like that at all. No matter how useless or irrelevant information seemed, there were a number of interested parties who would kill (and had) to learn things like that. Like that each Avengers had their own floor, isolated from the others. That Captain America and Falcon had a personal relationship that could compromise their decisions in the field. That Captain America had allergies, apparently.

But reminding Bucky would only make him clam up on the good stuff, and Clint? He wasn't telling anybody anyway. And since Clint wasn't exactly planning on storming Avengers Tower, it didn't matter how many of its secrets Clint was aware of.

If Clint had to speculate on why Bucky shared stories like that...he'd think that, maybe, Bucky was lonely. Without an open bond he couldn't be sure and had to figure it out the old-fashioned way, but while all of his stories (Scarlet Witch and Vision accidentally doubling the salt in a recipe, Banner spilling curry onto an Ironman helmet Stark had spent two weeks designing, Rogers and Wilson training for the NYC marathon) were funny and lighthearted, Clint couldn't help but notice that Bucky wasn't a part of them.

It kinda made sense. The Winter Soldier had barely been an Avengers member for a year, but he'd been an enemy for decades before that. There were probably a lot of hatchets that needed to be buried before he could really be trusted, and while he had Captain America in his corner, Rogers couldn't be with him 24/7.

It made Clint wonder, late at night when he was alone even in his own head, what Bucky did while he was in the Tower. If maybe he'd sought out Clint not to protect him from SHIELD, as he'd first claimed, but because there were times when he had nobody else to talk to.

Thoughts like that made his heart ache in a way that he knew he shouldn't allow. But when Bucky shared those stories, Clint couldn't help but reciprocate in kind, trading story for story about juggling rings in the circus before it was the Circus, about the blindingly white sand of Afghanistan, about still learning to read into his teens, about Barney.

And if Bucky could read deeper into those stories the same Clint had read into his, he didn't say a thing. It was as if they were both afraid to disturb the tenuous peace between them, neither of them knowing where this ride was going but enjoying it while it lasted.

In hindsight, it was obvious that they were like Thelma and Louise, racing towards a cliff with eyes wide open. 

 

* * *

 

“Since you incompetent jackanapes can't find your asses with both hands, I want you to tell me the plan one more time!” The ringmaster swung around and leveled a finger at Bruce the Strong Man, who started a dull recitation.

“Step 1: Infiltrate the warehouse.” He paused, screwing his face up in concentration, then: “Step 2: Find the shipment.”

“Shipment of what? A box of flowers? Please, be specific!”

“Nobody said what the shipment was. Nobody tells me anything.”

For obvious reasons, Clint thought to himself. Unfortunately, the ringmaster switched targets to Clint.

“Hawkeye! What does this shipment contain?”

“Hydra weapons being delivered across the border. Should be a single box, according to info from Swordsmaster, so Bruce here'll be pack mule while Barney and I provide cover from above and one of your clowns holds the exit.”

“Incorrect! Bullseye, please assist your brother with his homework!”

Barney had been testing out the new codename. Clint wasn't a fan, but he'd heard worse. His brother took his time, spreading his legs and scratching at his belly a little before answering.

“Swordsmaster and me'll provide cover from outside the factory, in case Hydra catches wind and sends over some guys from their home base.”

Clint frowned. He didn't mind working without Barney, but lately he'd been seeing less and less of his brother and he'd been looking forward to this job. Still, it made sense: they weren't expecting much resistance inside the factory aside from maybe a security guard or two. Hawkeye alone would be enough for sniper coverage, and Bruce was no pushover either.

He looked questioningly over at Barney but was ignored.

While the ringmaster railed at everyone (general incompetence, too expensive, blah blah blah), Clint kept on watching Barney who had now strolled over to Duquesne. He'd noticed that the two of them were hanging out more—more so than the usual, at least. The two had been close since he and Barney'd joined the circus, but Clint wasn't used to being left outside the conversation this much. Maybe Barney was still pissed at him about the airport, but who knew. 

Clint didn't bother with his hearing aids on the trip over; the other circus members knew not to bother him when he got into sniper headspace (except maybe the ringmaster, but no point in listening to that douche), and Barney knew sign. Or he used to, anyway; he hadn't had a conversation in ASL with Clint in years, and Clint himself was probably a little rusty anyway.

He wondered if Bucky knew ASL. Probably not, he decided after a few minutes of consideration. When they got back and Bucky showed his face again (he'd stay away for at least a week, ensuring that he wasn't involved in the job), Clint would have to start teaching him. Could be a good way to communicate on the sly in case SHIELD tried eavesdropping on Bucky.

There was a rough tap on his shoulder and Clint looked up, seeing Barney's profile. At his nod, Clint inserted his hearing aids and turned them up in order to hear his whisper.

“On three, you, Bruce, and Clown get to the entrance.” Clint glanced out the van's window. Boring, dusty desert; factory that looked rusted to hell.

“We in the right place?”

“Of course we are,” Barney snapped. His movements were a little jerky as he strapped on his gun case; weirdly tense for such a routine job.

“Touchy,” Clint muttered, but he took his bow and quiver without complaint and headed in. Hopefully there weren't any security cameras; with full costumes on they weren't exactly stealthy as they made their way to the front entrance, and the metallic screech from where Bruce and torn off the door padlock seemed to reverberate through the empty building as they entered.

“ _In position?_ ” Barney's voice over the radio was staticky but still clear enough for Clint to hear. He tapped the mic and the three of them parted, Clint heading for the upstairs scaffolding. Though it looked like there wouldn't be much need for his services; there didn't seem to be a single guard around.

It took about ten minutes before the Strong Man had found what they were looking for. Exactly as Duquesne had described: single wooden box, 3×3ft, apparently pretty fucking heavy judging from the way Bruce almost slid under its weight as he tied it to his back.

“Target acquired,” Clint muttered into his mic. “You guys ready?”

There was only a low whine of static from his comm. Clint frowned, and tried again: “Barney?”

The whine stretched into an electronic shriek that Clint recoiled from—what the fuck?--and a moment later the opposite end of the factory exploded.

 

* * *

 

…. _Clint?_

He heard his name, muttered soft and low, before being drowned out by the dull hum in his ears. Like one of the tuning forks the doctor used to try out on him, cracking the metal prongs against the exam table before holding it close. He'd watch the vibrations of the prongs to answer when the sound started and stopped; his mother always knew, though, when he lied, her mouth would shape his name--

_Clint?_

\--in that disappointed way she had, all soft instead of hard like his dad, her words forming into mush that his ears couldn't make out, not when they hurt this badly; everything hurt hurt hurt

“Clint!”

Clint started awake. He was on his side, resting on something cold and hard, maybe metal. His fingers scraped across it—metal, shallow dips punched in even rows along its length—a walkway, maybe? He couldn't see a damn thing; it was all pitch black. He quickly withdrew his hand when a dozen sharp thuds shook through the metal.

“What the fuck?” He felt his mouth make the words but heard nothing. He pulled out one aid and fiddled with it blindly, then the other. Completely dead.

“I could ask you the same damn thing.” Clint froze, then relaxed when he recognized whose voice that had to be.

“Bucky...oh thank fuck. What's going on?”

“You tell me.” Clint couldn't see the soldier but guessed that he was probably crouched in front of him, depending on how narrow the walkway was. “ _I_  was sleeping, then suddenly I heard an explosion and here I am.”

“I...” Clint's head was spinning, probably from a concussion, but he tried. “I think...we're on a job. Stealing some weapons. There was...an explosion?”

He felt that dull vibration beneath him again, a one-two punch that almost jolted him off the walkway.

“Don't move. Someone's firing at you.”

Clint almost groaned but stopped short. No sense in giving away his position. Fuckers must have night vision goggles or something though, if they knew where he was.

Whoever they were. Clint forced himself to think back despite the whopper of a headache that was announcing itself. They'd secured the shipment, he remembered, and he'd commed Barney. And then...then…

“ _Shit_.” He pawed at his side and dug out his radio. It was dead just like everything else; must have been an EMP. Where had Barney been? They'd changed the plan at the last minute, Barney was going to be outside with Duquesne, not stuck inside the pitch black factory full of people trying to kill him—he had to be safe, right?

But Barney always needed him. If he'd already been caught, maybe injured, maybe even killed...Clint swore and dropped the radio.

“Bucky,” he whispered, reaching out. “You have to find him.”

“Find who?”

“Barney!” Bucky didn't seem to recognize how serious the situation was; his voice remained completely even. “He's—they got him! He didn't answer me on the radio before the EMP went off...shit, he and Duquesne planned the whole job. Hydra probably found out and they got him, they're gonna kill him.”

He could see it now: Barney on the ground and completely still, like the time dad had hit him with the brass knuckles and they'd had to go to the hospital. Clint completely helpless to do anything.

But Bucky could do something. “Please, you have to find him. Make sure he's alright.”

“I can't, Clint. You know I have to stay close to you, otherwise the bond'll break.”

_Shit._  Then Clint would have to find Barney then. He got shakily to his feet, only to jerk back down as, simultaneously, a bunch of sparks showered down on him from the piping above his head where a few shots had made contact.

“I told you not to fucking move!”

“I can't--” He was hyperventilating now, each breath too shallow to satisfy him, leaving him more and more lightheaded with each passing moment. “I can't  _see_  anything, Buck!”

“Calm down,” Bucky said. Clint felt tentative fingers, then strong hands, squeezing his forearms. The metal hand was strangely hot to the touch. Bucky had never touched him before; he hadn't even known it was possible. “Breathe with me.”

Clint forced himself to focus on Bucky's breathing, the only thing in the world that he could hear without his aids. From the vibrations beneath him he knew that there had to be other sounds; people running, gunshots, people dying. Clint's normal soundtrack; but as Bucky pressed close, the slow expansion of his lungs and steady thumping of his heart slowed everything down.

After a long moment, Clint licked his lips and pulled away. “Okay. I'm okay.”

“No, you're not.” Bucky shifted a little, probably looking around. “You're in some kind of abandoned factory, I think, you can't see or hear anything, and you're surrounding by armed guards who I'm pretty sure are looking for you.”

“We've got people here.” Clint ran through the tally desperately in his head. “Two people on the ground, me as sniper, Barney and the Swordsmaster at a post outside.”

“Your people on the ground are dead,” Bucky said with certainty. “And you're alone.”

Who...who had come with him? Clint remembered: Strong Man, and one of the clown minions, who'd pinched at the bare skin of his left elbow when they'd split up, silently confirming the go-ahead.

The place where she'd touched him burned, and Clint forced himself into a crouch. “We have to check...we have to be sure. If they're still--”

“No.” Bucky pushed him back down. “I know what dead people look like. But you're still alive, and I'm keeping it that way.”

“Then we get in contact with Barney, or with Swordsmaster. They'll be looking for me--”

“Don't you get it?” Bucky hissed. “They left you to die. Maybe unintentionally, or whatever you want to tell yourself, but you need to focus if you want to get out of here alive.”

He may as well have slapped Clint; Clint recoiled, squeezing his bow reflexively. Hell, Bucky had literally just walked into the situation, who was he to say what was going on?

But he had a point; Clint was completely fucked and he'd need help to get out of this.

“Fine. I'll do it your way.” Getting pissed off calmed him down a little at least, enough for him to assess the situation. Trapped in a factory he didn't entirely know the layout of, unable to see or hear anything, unknown number of hostiles surrounding him. Great.

“I'm gonna make you mean that,” Bucky replied. “I'm not joking around here. You have to do exactly what I tell you. No compromises.”

“Alright, already! I promise.” Jesus.

It took over a minute for Bucky to reply, probably debating whether Clint would really do as he said. Like he had a choice anyway; it was either follow Bucky's instructions, or accidentally walk over an edge and die. Easy choice.

“If it's a promise...” he finally said. “You have to get behind better cover. Those sound like MI-5's; the sheet metal beneath you will only hold out for so long.” Bucky paused, apparently scoping the place out—could he see better than Clint in the dark? Probably. “On my count, move two meters to your left.

Clint very slowly shifted his weight to his heels. “On three?”

“One...two...” Another pause. “Three!”

Clint hurled himself to the left. Another thunderous rattle followed him as the guards below fired, but duller somehow, as if there was more metal shielding his position now.

“Good. There's a fire escape ladder at your ten o'clock, 1 meter from your position. It'll take you down to a platform about ten meters below.”

Clint remember this, now. He'd climbed that same ladder earlier to get into position. It was flimsy, but if he was quick…

“They're regrouping—now, Clint!”

The ladder was flimsier than expected; it swayed enough under his weight that he almost missed the platform below when he let go at Bucky's command, barely avoiding another shower of bullets. He rolled as he landed and blindly fired three arrows back.

It was quiet for the new few moments as Bucky reassessed their position, and Clint took advantage to suck in a few deep breaths.

“How did you know where they were?”

“Huh?” Clint glanced over. There were closer to the front entrance at this height, and he could see the faint outline where Bucky stood. Bucky nodded down at the ground floor.

Clint shrugged. “Guessed at the number of shooters and their positions based on the bullet ricochet patterns.”

The soldier stared at him. Clint bristled reflexively: “What? I'm competent.”

“At times,” the soldier finally said. “Move it. There's more coming in from the rear entrance.”

Clint stared down the dark passageway that Bucky had gestured to. “Isn't that going closer to where they are, then?”

“It is.”

How very ambiguous. “Well, of the two of us here only one of us is possibly about to be riddled with bullets. You sure about this, hotshot?”

“Yes—now  _go_.”

He got about twenty meters before gunfire forced him to crouch behind an air vent, still a few meters away from the second ladder Bucky said was there. Now he was open on both sides, with only the air vent at his back to protect him. It was only a matter of time until the guards below figured out that they could just walk ten meters and get him from the front.

“Well, that was a great idea,” Clint snarked. His palms slipped against the bow and he re-tightened his grip—if he was gonna die, it would be with his bow in his hand.

Bucky sounded further away, probably scoping out the area. “There's another way out—you'll have to jump. There's a platform below. If you can make it, and if you're as good as you say you are, you'll be able to get them in their blind spot.”

Clint cautiously moved forward, towards Bucky's voice. Below them was a yawning darkness, too dark for Clint to judge where the platform was. “No way.”

“You don't have any other options.”

“Sure I do. I could shoot myself in the head. I could pull off my underwear and use it as a white flag. I could--”

“Look, have I ever lied to you?”

Clint opened his mouth to respond to the affirmative...but looking back, that was actually true. “No,” he said grudgingly. “First time for everything though.”

“You have to trust me on this. You don't have to like me, but you have to trust that I'm trying to help you.”

Clint cautiously toed at the edge of the walkway. It was too easy to picture how this would end: impaled on one the rusted out concrete re-bar, vaporized by one of the guns he was trying to steal in midair, landing in the middle of a bunch of Hydra guards and being captured. Clint had imagined all the ways he could die before, but he'd never pictured that he wouldn't have his brother at his side.

Instead, he had this stranger—no, not a stranger. His soulmate by his side instead, someone who probably hadn't been trusted by anybody for a long time.

“For the record,” Clint said as he backed up a little, “I do like you. Sort of. Not that this is a good time for that, but just so you know. Before I die.”

“You're not gonna die. Now  _jump!”_

Clint jumped. Then he fell about five meters, landed partially on the platform below him with legs dangling in the air. Then he pulled himself and shot five arrows, nailing each guard below.

“Well, that was awesome,” he said, letting some giddiness rise up in him.

“We're not done yet,” Bucky said next to his ear. “Now move it.”

As Bucky continued to guide Clint's way out of the building, he couldn't help watching him, keeping eyes on his soulmate instead of on his surroundings the way he should be doing. Every command the soldier gave, every stray comment on weaponry, every assessment of their surroundings...Clint had only seen that kind of competence before in Duquesne.

He'd never asked, in any of their conversations, what Bucky remembered about his life before the Avengers. At first because it had seemed rude, but later because it was obvious that Bucky didn't want to talk about it. That probably wasn't healthy, but Clint had figured that even if they were soulmates, that didn't make them friends, and if Bucky wanted to pretend like the last sixty years hadn't happened then it wasn't any of Clint's business.

But moments like this reminded him that, whoever Bucky was now, he'd once been the Winter Soldier. And because of that, he was probably going to save Clint's life.

By the time they got outside, Clint felt ready to drop. It felt like hours had passed while he'd followed Bucky blindly in the dark, but judging from the sun's position overhead it had only been an hour or two since when the van had first pulled up.

Then...there. In the distance across desert, a small reflection flickered at him.

Clint's heart leapt. It was the van—and as it got closer, he could see that Barney and Duquesne were inside. He'd survived.

Clint whooped and slapped Bucky on the back. “Goddamn we're lucky sons of bitches! He made it!” Clint grinned over at Bucky, feeling his heart swell up with relief in his chest. His brother was okay...they would be okay.

“You have to run.”

“What?” Clint said distractedly, busy waving the van over. Only half a mile away now.

“You said you would do whatever I told you to. Now I'm  _ordering_  you to run.”

Clint paused. Moves his eyes, then his face to Bucky's. This was the first time he'd seen the soldier clearly since his timely arrival, and in the bright daylight his face seemed colder than ever.

“What?” Clint laughed nervously. Five hundred feet. He glanced behind him, at the still-running cars the guards must have used to get there.

“You told me that your brother helped plan the job,” Bucky said, keeping his gaze on the approaching van. “You weren't supposed to survive it. Now he's coming to kill you.”

“You're...you're crazy.” Two hundred feet. “He's my brother. There must have been a mistake.”

Bucky finally tore his eyes off the van and looked Clint in the face. “You  _promised_ me. Either run, or strike first while you still have your bow. If you can't use it on your brother, use it on the tires.”

“I...you're...” What the hell was Bucky going on about? Some paranoia, some ghost from the soldier's past. One hundred feet. “I'm not going to hurt my brother.”

“If you won't, then I'll--"

Then Clint felt it, an awful lurch when the soldier touched him, and the next moment it was Clint who stood aside in the desert and Bucky who had the bow, raising it in the air and taking aim. 

It felt like he was tearing his own intestines out, as Clint reached for the bond and tore at it, desperate to force Bucky to release control of his body. But the bond was already weak from the witch's interference, and a moment later Clint was back in control. The image of Bucky shuddered, but even as his body started to disappear, he still reached out for Clint.

“Don't--”

And he was gone.

One hundred feet. This close, Clint could see Barney's face. And the bow in his hands.

 

* * *

“You're alive.”

Clint didn't bother looking up. He didn't want to look at him, but of course the soldier approached/ 

“What happened?” The words were both louder and softer somehow, both far away and too close. He barked out a short laugh, then winced.

“What do you think?” Clint finally looked at him, but the soldier wasn't looking at his face, instead looking at his side where blood had soaked through his shirt. No point in applying further pressure; the puncture wound itself had stopped bleeding hours ago after he'd treated it with a stashed away med kit. He should have changed clothes, taken a shower,  _something_ , before Bucky had seen him. But the shock of it, of Barney attacking him, had driven the thought of his soulmate out of his head.

“Duquesne,” the soldier answered sharply. Apparently satisfied that Clint wasn't going to die at that moment, he moved to sit next to him on the ledge.

If only that was true. No, the Swordsmaster was responsible for the hairline rib fractures, but it had been Barney who'd used the bow. Clint said nothing, but apparently Bucky was better at reading him than he'd thought, because he sucked in a sharp breath before continuing: “Barney?”

“Yeah,” Clint said warily. He didn't want to hear it—not now. But of course, Bucky soldiered on.

“I told you what would happen.”

“Nag, nag,” Clint replied, hoping to head him off. “Thanks for worrying, but I've got it under control. Once he cools off it'll be fine.”

That was Barney's pattern. Clint would do something to piss him off, Barney would blow off some steam, then he'd cool off and they'd be fine. Granted, this was worse than anything that had happened before...but it would be fine. It always was.

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky asked. “He tried to kill you. How is that fine?”

“Relax, I'm not that killeable, even if I'm not a super soldier.” Clint eased himself over a little, giving Bucky more space. Already his side was feeling less painful. “Thanks for worrying, though.”

It took a few long minutes for Bucky to reply. As he waited, Clint watched the sky slowly lighten. Almost sunrise.

“I'm allowed to care about you,” Bucky finally said. “And to worry about you when you keep hanging around someone who...who makes you worse than you are.”

“What, he's a bad influence?” That was hilarious, but Clint didn't dare laugh in case he started bleeding again.

“He's going to get you killed.”

Clint frowned and deliberately sent a wave of displeasure over the bond.

“If anything, I'm gonna get myself killed. Shitty luck, remember?”

“No,” Bucky shook his head. “You don't see your brother for what he really is. He's not the shoplifting punk you remember him as—he's a criminal who enjoys hurting people. Including you.”

“Stop it,” Clint snapped. 

“I know you,” Bucky continued on, not letting Clint interrupt. “You always assume the best in people, even with all the shittiness out there. You were okay with the fucking Winter Soldier being your soulmate, for crying out loud. But you're being naive about him, to the point of being dangerous.”

“We're brothers.” Why couldn't Bucky understand? Maybe because he only had sisters. “We have each others' backs. Brotherly love and all that shit.”

“Fine, you love him—he doesn't love you though.”

Fucking Bucky—he didn't  _know_. Didn't know Barney the way Clint did, didn't even know Clint, really. The presumption of it, that being his soulmate meant understanding him in a way that Clint's fucking  _family_  didn't: that sent a tight twist of rage burning through his stomach.

“He could have killed me. He didn't.” His words were tight, daring Bucky to doubt them. Of course, Bucky took the bait.

“A penetrating wound to the midsection? That's not messing around,” Bucky shook his head. “You known damn well that Barney isn't good enough to make a shot like that non-lethal.”

“I guess you would know,” Clint retaliated, taking the easy opening. An ugly laugh came out of him. “Of course the Winter Soldier would know how to make a lethal shot. Plenty of practice, right? Isn't that what you were trying to do when you fucking possessed me? Is that the only way you know how to help?”

Bucky's face twisted, then flattened to its default expressionless state. But Clint had the bond, could read him through it, and he knew that he'd hurt him.

“You could probably do a better job of it than Barney, though. Shot to the head, wasn't that your modus operandi? Or you could strangle me with the arm. I bet Hydra loved that one.”

“Stop it.”

“There's probably a hundred different ways that you could kill me. Did you have a favorite? Whatever Barney is, he's  _nothing_  compared to the shit you've done. You--”

“ _SHUT UP!_ ”

Clint fell back. He was breathing hard, almost panting—he hadn't realized that he'd been yelling at Bucky. The adrenaline rush began to burn off, reminding him of the painful throbbing in his side.

Bucky looked—the soldier looked terrible. He'd gone pale, and he was gripping the mechanical arm hard, as if holding it back.

“You—you don't,” Bucky paused. Clint kept quiet. There was something about the look on his face that frightened him.

Then Bucky shook his head and stepped back. Preparing to leave. “You know what? Stay with the Circus. I don't care.”

Liar. Clint's chest tightened anyway—or maybe it was the bond, thinning as it stretched, as Bucky pulled away.

“You can keep doing whatever your brother tells you to do.” A strangled laugh. “Of course that's what you'll do. You'll keep taking bigger and bigger risks, up until the day your luck runs out and you get yourself killed.”

God. It was so obvious that Clint just had to say it.

“Isn't that what you did for Steve?” Clint asked. “Didn't you die for him?”

Dead silence. Whether because he was too outraged to reply, Clint couldn't tell.

“Steve didn't ask me to,” Bucky finally said. “He wouldn't. He promised me, together until the end of the line. And he keeps his promises, unlike you.”

“Then maybe he should be your soulmate. Not me.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Well, he's not. You are. And I'm yours, and we're stuck with each other. You're just going to have to deal with that.”

Clint recoiled. He knew...he was pretty sure...maybe Clint wouldn't be anybody's first choice as their soulmate, but he'd thought that they'd had something. Maybe not that 'true love soul bond together forever' TV thing, but they'd had each others' backs, just like Bucky had said in the beginning.

Or Bucky had had his, anyway. Had protected him from SHIELD countless times, had saved his life just now. What had Clint done for him? He had the excuse that the bond was blocked, at least, but even if it had been open...would he really step up, if Bucky needed him? What could someone like him do to help an Avenger?

He knew he'd regret saying it, but maybe it was better. Would be better. “You know what? I don't have to. And neither do you.”

He took a deep breath. “Tell the witch to close it off. The whole thing. We'd be better off without each other.”

Bucky drew back into the shadows, face unreadable. A moment later, he disappeared.

 

* * *

 

After almost a month without any visits from Bucky, Clint had resigned himself to the idea that his soul mate wanted nothing to do with him.

Yeah, it had been a pretty bad argument. Clint had said some things he regretted, not because they weren't true but because he'd only said them to hurt Bucky. He wanted to...apologize, maybe. Except that with the bond closed, Clint had no way of getting in contact with him. And if Bucky had given up on him, then...then there was nothing Clint could do about it.

Clint hadn't spoken to anyone from the Circus since the factory incident, aside from some quiet investigations where he'd learned that Duquesne had decided to take over and take out some of the competition at the same time; hence the attempted-murder on Clint. And apparently Barney had gone along with it.

He hated that Bucky had been right. But he would give anything to have Bucky there with him, rubbing it into his face. At least then he wouldn't be alone.

Clint ended up job-hopping around, getting involved with one gang or another, saving up his cash without making any promises to any one. He wasn't sure if Duquesne might be looking for him after Clint had broken his arm in his escape—Duquesne was the type to hold a grudge, but Clint had made it clear that he wouldn't go down easy. Still, Duquesne had a lot of contacts and it didn't hurt to lay low for a while.

It was around three months after the factory incident that Clint finally, finally saw Bucky again. Not through the bond though; he was on TV.

Being dragged, limp and unresponsive, into a Hydra helicopter.

“It has been confirmed that James Barnes, known informally as the Winter Soldier, appears to have been killed during today's Avengers skirmish in Central Park,” the newscaster read. “No information has been released from Stark Tower regarding his current status--”

_Shit._  Clint dug into his mind, in the bond—nothing. The witch was still blocking it.

He'd still been alive. Unconscious, maybe, but not dead. Clint would have felt it, blocked bond or not. Every soulmate could, if it didn't kill them as well. Bucky was still alive.

For now.

The Avengers had to be looking for him. They knew Hydra, and they had SHIELD backing them up. They would find him.

That was what Clint told himself over the next two days, two days spent anxiously alternating between checking the bond and the TV. No change in either one. The world still thought that Bucky Barnes was probably dead. No comment from the Avengers.

It shouldn't be taking so long, Clint kept thinking as his anxiety grew. There was something wrong. Maybe Hydra was better than they'd thought, maybe even better than SHIELD. Maybe the Avengers wouldn't find Bucky in time.

Maybe they needed help.

It took another day for Clint to drive up from Virginia to New York, all the while with misgivings that this was a bad plan. He would be effectively turning himself in, guaranteeing that he'd never be free again. Duquesne would never trust him again. Barney would never trust him again.

He kept psyching himself out, turning the car around three times. Each time, the bond had brought him back.

Eventually, Clint found himself standing across the street from the entrance to the Avengers Tower. It was taller than he'd expected, holding ground with the neighboring skyscrapers, and it seemed to loom over him as he watched it. Watched people casually going in and out, carrying coffee from the Starbucks next door, playing in the fountain just outside. As if this place wasn't so important. Lifting his feet seemed impossible; by going inside, he'd be throwing everything away.

But he'd trusted Bucky, back in the factory. So maybe now Bucky was trusting him, to bring him back.

Clint gritted his teeth and hit the pedestrian walk button on the traffic pole. It took three never-ending seconds for the light to change, thirty long steps to cross the street. Then finally, he was standing in front of the entrance, arms length from the door handle.

_Just do it already_ , he told himself. Clint reached out.

To his right came an odd whirring noise. Clint turned, only to get nailed by Captain America's shield again.

 

* * *

 

While Clint was happy that he had regained consciousness at all, he wasn't happy with where he woke up.

“Oh, c'mon,” he muttered as he twisted his hands around, testing the strength of the chains attaching him to the chair. “This is overkill. I'm not a super soldier.”

The interrogation room they'd stashed him in was very clean, which he suspected didn't bode well for him. Who knew if he was even still in the Tower; maybe he'd been bundled off to some secret SHIELD prison for people on their shitlist. If Bucky was here, he'd probably have something to say about this.

If he was here. Clint closed his eyes and searched for the bond. Still impenetrable. Damn it.

“Is anyone here?” he asked the empty room. The mirror across from him didn't respond.

“Fine, ignore me.” Hopefully there was actually someone watching him through the probably two-way mirror; Clint was getting tired of always talking to himself. “It's not like it's been like five hours since the last time I pissed. Hope there's a drain in the floor.”

Still no response. Clint sighed and leaned his head back. Waiting game, then.

Approximately an hour later, Clint was getting pissed. Why the hell were they just ignoring him? He'd come here to help; they  _had_  to know that—why else would he just show up at their headquarters? Every minute that passed was another minute where they could be  _looking_ , not having a bunch of giggles watching him talk to himself.

“I know you can hear me,” Clint gritted out. He glared at his reflection, willing whoever was on the other side to listen. “I know that Bucky got kidnapped. I know you guys haven't found him yet, or he'd let me know that he's okay. So let me fucking help you.”

Still nothing. Probably didn't believe him, maybe even thought he was involved. They had no reason to trust him, after all, especially if Bucky had really been hiding his meetings with Clint from the team. No reason to believe that Clint would risk anything for Bucky.

But there was one other person who would.

“Captain Rogers? Are you there?” His reflection looked nothing like the captain, but he talked to it anyway. “Bucky told me once that you'd never ask him to die for you. That you would be together until the end of the line.”

Still quiet. But he was sure that someone was listening.

“Right?”

He waited, one heartbeat, then another. 

Then the door handle turned, and Captain America stepped into the room.

The guy looked a lot bigger up close. He reminded Clint of police officers, principals, people Clint normally couldn't look in the eye. But he did now, staring him down as Captain America approached his chair.

“Bucky told you about me, then.”

“Yeah.” Clint cracked a smile. “You're important to him.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.” Rogers' face shuttered closed at that, and Clint hurried on: “But I can find out.”

Rogers looked at him carefully then, but Clint didn't return his gaze. Instead, he focused on the woman who'd just entered the room.

“You want me to open the bond,” she said, a trace accent to her words that he didn't recognize. The Captain started, then looked visibly relieved as she approached.

“The bond'll let me figure out where he is. Even if he's—he's—not himself, I can still see what he sees.”

“It's not a guarantee. The fact that we haven't been able to track you down until now proves that.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “No disrespect, Captain, but I'm good at what I do, even without help. And whoever's got Bucky probably doesn't know that he has a soul-bond. They won't be trying to hide.”

“Bucky was helping you,” the Captain said flatly, reading between the lines.

Clint shrugged, not quite willing to incriminate Bucky. “It'll work.”

Rogers looked over at the witch. “What do you think, Wanda?”

She was looking over Clint with a critical eye. “What he says is true. But,” her voice dropped lower, almost too low for Clint to hear. “I cannot open the bond only part way. We will be giving this man access to every part of Barnes' mind.”

“You can shut it off afterward, if you want.” Clint shrugged, feigning a nonchalant, 'who cares not me' attitude even as his heart leaped. Having the bond open, being a part of Bucky...he tried not to let hope show on his face.

“No. It was difficult to close it the first time; I doubt I will be able to do so again. There will be no going back.”

That would be it then. No more cat-and-mouse games, no more being a part of the Circus, no more being a small-time criminal.

No more being apart from Bucky.

“Do it,” the Captain ordered.

The witch reached out for Clint's head, then stopped short. She hesitated, glancing back at the Captain. He nodded reassuringly back. “Bucky wouldn't have told him about me if he didn't trust him.”

She reached out again, and with one touch, Clint fell apart.

 

* * *

 

Clint had once asked his mother what the bond felt.

He had been seven-years-old, too young to understand the look on her face when she listened to his question, the stuttering response following. Not satisfied with her answer, he'd asked others: teachers, an employee at the orphanage, an acrobat at the circus. He wasn't quite sure when he'd finally stopped, only knew that the thought of what a soul bond meant hadn't crossed his mind again until he was thirty-six years old and staring across at the Winter Soldier.

He didn't remember what any of them had told him. If some kid were to ask him now, though, he'd say it felt like the worst hangover he'd ever had.

“No, back off from the convoy!” Rogers was yelling into some kind of radio in the cockpit. “It's too dangerous—stay up high, we'll intercept them when they hit the border, Tony!”

The jet suddenly twisted to the side. That did not help Clint's stomach, which was already heaving from the double image playing out before his eyes, a snowy landscape rushing past a car window overlapping over his own bird's eye view through the open cargo hatch. He clenched the harness tethering him to the wall harder, willing himself to not throw up everywhere.

“ _Nag, nag. What's_ _the soul sister_ _say they're going to Siberia for, anyway?_ ”

The Captain looked over at him. Clint opened his mouth to reply and immediately regretted it when the dry-heaving started up again. He'd already emptied himself out back in the interrogation room (which probably hadn't improved the Avengers' first impression of him), but his stomach was making a good effort anyway. It was a long minute before he could respond.

“I think--” Closing his eyes helped. “Training...training facility. Where they used to keep him.”

Rogers' jaw clenched. “Why?”

“It's not—not complete.” He wasn't quite sure what they'd done to Bucky, how to interpret what he was feeling through the bond. Wanda had tried to help but she wasn't sure either; it felt like he was still  _him_ , but there was some kind of overriding apathy that crushed everything else down. Whatever it was, Bucky hadn't responded to Clint, hadn't acknowledge him at all; just followed the Hydra soldiers into the Jeep while Clint had screamed at him from the ground.

“They have something there,” Clint gasped out. He'd heard something, or Bucky had heard something anyway. “A training device. Something to wipe his memory.”

Something in him—them—had lurched when the Hydra goon had mentioned it. Bucky was afraid of it, whatever it was, which meant Clint was afraid too. That was probably making Bucky worse; it was a vicious cycle, and Clint could barely breathe because of it.

“ _Any ideas what it is?_ ”

At the look on Clint's face, Rogers replied for him: “Whatever it is, we'll stop them before they can reach it. Falcon, I want you at our 2:00...”

As Rogers started doing his Captain thing, Clint slumped against the harness. The nausea was starting to ease up a little, but that only allowed the anxiety to ramp up until Clint was dizzy with it. God, he'd always thought that the magazines and movies exaggerated it, this feeling like a piece of his heart was apart from him, like he'd die if Bucky did...which was something that could happen, he reminded himself.

“Focus, Barton,” he muttered to himself.

The jet began to descend. Captain America stood up, hooking the shield onto his back.

“I want to help,” Clint said. He looked imploringly up at Captain America, who just shook his head.

“If you want to help, keep talking to him through the bond. Tell Bucky that we're coming for him.”

Clint looked through the bond, making sure that he could still feel him, that Bucky was still alive. There was a sleepy awareness that answered him, slowly rising through the drugged apathy, and he heard an echo of the alarm system announcing the Avengers' arrival.

He and Bucky both smiled. “He already knows.”

 

* * *

 

The disorientation from the newly reformed bond kept Clint from staying as focused as he would like, so his memories of the fight were jumpy and disorganized.

Through Bucky's eyes, he watched as the guards who'd secured him in a cell suddenly all  _perked up, moments before a repulsor blast shattered the wall opposite the chair._

Through his own eyes, he saw part of the outer perimeter wall of the base cave in. His head ached from the simultaneous blaring of two sets of alarms, one could now hear in the plane, the other echoing in his mind.

_There was dust in the air, in his eyes, in his mouth, but he knew that his best friend had come for him. He tugged weakly at the leather restraints, willing the anesthetic in his blood to metabolize faster._

“Pull harder,” Clint muttered. “You're so close.”

Bucky heard him and heaved.  _The restraints along his left arm snapped one by one, and he tore the others off his right arm with the newly freed hand. Steve was there, smashing the last Hydra guard in the head, shield whirring as it ricocheted through the room; the others were outside the cell but nearby—they'd all come for him._

_Clint had come for him._

He lost the next few minutes in fire and explosion,  _smoke choking the air out of the small cell, but then there was a burst of daylight and his eyes filled with open sky and snow and the Quinjet where Clint was waiting for him._

And then Bucky was there, supported on Captain America's shoulder, staring at Clint who stared back, seeing himself through Bucky's eyes. It had been almost a year since they'd first met, but it was just as overwhelming as the first time.

“Told you,” Clint muttered weakly, ignoring the echo. “Told you...like you a little.” Had he? He couldn't remember now, what he'd said to Bucky through the bond versus just in his own head. He squinted trying to remember.

_I know_ , he heard Bucky say through the bond. And Clint could feel it too, the certainty and fondness and everything else. It didn't really matter now, what he'd said before—with the bond open, there were no more secrets between them.

 

* * *

 

“So I hear you're the new unpaid intern.”

Clint started and looked up. Bucky was lounging in the doorway to his new quarters, whole and unharmed. Clint threw a pillow at his face and grinned when it bounced off. 

“Guess you're really you, then.”

“In the flesh.” Bucky paused, then cautiously stepped forward. “How's SHIELD treating you?”

Clint gestured around at the bare, windowless walls of the room. “Five-star accommodations.” Pointed at his shoulder. “New tracking microchip. To be fair, my other option was two combined life sentences in federal penitentiary, so I guess I got off light.”

Bucky frowned. “I meant what I said, in the beginning. I don't want a life with me to be a prison for you.”

Clint shrugged. “I made my bed, time to lie in it I guess. Besides, once my probation's up, they might give me agent status. Then I can get an official record of having better aim than you.”

“Oh yeah?” That seemed to shake the melancholy out of him, something Clint sensed would be a lifetime's work. Clint's gaze trailed down his outfit, noting the loosened dress shirt and tie.

“Hey, why aren't you at the Tower? I thought they'd be holding a welcome back party for you.”

Bucky shrugged. “They did. It was a little too much, though, so Steve let me slip out the back.”

“So you'd thought you'd come hang out with a loser rookie agent?”

Bucky shook his head. “I hung out with you when you were a loser small-time criminal. This is a step up.”

How flattering. Clint wasn't sure what to say, though. The parameters were different now; Clint didn't have the option of running away just by closing his eyes.

Just for fun, he gave it a shot. When he opened his eyes again, Bucky was still standing there, looking unimpressed. In his head, the bond thrummed happily, finally free of the witch's influence.

“You know that you don't have to physically be here, right?” Clint gestured again at the room, which was probably even more inadequate-looking to Bucky compared to his normal luxury accommodations at the tower. “I can come visit you whenever I want now, and vice versa. If you wanted to go back.”

Bucky stepped closer and cautiously took a seat next to Clint on his bed, keeping a careful distance between them.

“I thought that maybe I would stay here for a while, instead of at the Tower. If that's okay with you.”

Clint opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. Bucky already knew his answer.

Instead, he looked at his face, the line of his neck, his bare right hand. He wondered what it would feel like, to touch Bucky's skin, if it would be like the first time. Even casual contact like that was different for soulmates; touching made the bond stronger according to everyone Clint knew. It still scared him a little, the idea of the bond getting even stronger than it already was. As if it might consume him, as if what made him an individual might be lost. Bucky probably was too, after having lost himself for so many years—no, he  _was_. Clint could feel it.

But he also was sure that they trusted each other. They'd get there eventually, but for now Clint was content to just be near him.

“Just so you know, I am planning on getting laid at some point. Preferably without waiting another seventy years.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “I'm really stuck with you in my head for the rest of my life?”

“And me with you.” Bucky grinned. Clint felt the echo of it through the bond and couldn't help but return it.

Yeah. They'd be alright. 

 


End file.
